Ouroboros
by lye tea
Summary: Again and again. Caius/Yeul


**Ouroboros**

This Yeul is not the same as the previous one or the next one or the endless Yeuls stretching eons beyond and worlds behind.

This one, like her predecessors, sisters, mothers, and incarnates, is unique.

Cradled in his arms, this Yeul dies like all the rest (a sweet smile fading on her lips).

Gently, Caius lays her to rest, thinking how beautiful and tragic and abhorrent her little life is. And how forever is a curse too great—for any once-mortal to take.

He stands up and opens the gate. Ready _now and always._

Repeats.

. . .

She is celebrating her fifth birthday when he finds her this time (Etro is late, likes her games). Giggling and cheerful, she pulls at the hem of his pants and demands for candy.

She is stubborn and ebullient, is the antithesis of the one he buried (what seems only moments ago). Shrewd and protective, Yeul's mother apologizes, whisking her away.

And Caius falls in love with her, all over again.

. . .

Yeul dies in her twelfth year after predicting (another) the end of the world. Numb, he watches as her body erupts into crimson on the pyre.

. . .

Oerba is fresh and fertile when they meet again.

She greets him with heaps of flowers and her haunting voice. Barefoot and dancing, in the forest two lefts past the schoolyard, she simultaneously sings him full of hope and despair. And for a moment—splintered down the hairline number—he remembers the first Yeul.

_His Yeul_.

He hears her melodies, her grief, her tattered and worn asunder sacrifices (that which can't be tallied). And his heart trembles, flutters like a leviathan thrashing in its net.

"I've waited for you," _for so long_.

"I'm sorry," he answers and follows her.

She laces her fingers with his and gazes up at him adoringly. In this lifetime, they will be happy (she promises him).

. . .

She is flirtatious yet awkward, like an ordinary, _supposed to be_ fourteen year-old girl. And Caius is amused, has played and dangled the role for immeasurable occasions prior to this—

"Yeul," he calls for her.

Laughing, she reaches toward him—

And dies.

Leaving him sudden and alone (betrayed).

. . .

She dies in a sea of marigolds at the zenith, turning of summer. She dies in his embrace, completely showered in white. She dies and whispers to him her regret: that she never had the chance to kiss a boy.

This Yeul is famous for her humor.

. . .

Caius has brought a total of three hundred and ninety-nine Yeuls to the shores of Valhalla. And this one makes four hundred even.

He lowers her into the boundless, frozen currents and waits for them to drag her into their depth. Her ablution. Here, her soul will be prepared for the next rebirth.

High in her temple, Etro's throne remains vacant, perpetually emitting the vibrations of hollow peals.

_For whom the bell tolls  
For the dead who cannot sleep  
For the girl who cannot die._

. . .

Furious, he beseeches Etro that this Yeul lives to her twentieth. The absolute, the ultimate year. She is young and innocent (like her other selves).

But this one is also desperate to live.

. . .

The madness is slow and inexorable. And though Caius tries to deter it, strangle its progression, its corrosion, he knows eventually it will win him over. The descent crashes and jolts him awake.

_Valhalla_.

Wispy tendril-arms come to receive.

He has arrived to rest and capture the temporary, solitary reprieve obedient only to immortals.

The goddess is absent—still, eternal. Her halls are empty, and her throne is cold. He thinks that he's done it, has desired (prayed) the goddess out of existence. And then, he listens for the tremor of her throat roaring galaxies beyond the white walls.

Even in the sanctuary devoid of time, Caius is still enslaved by Yeul's suffering, her unceasing sorrow.

And so, he returns to mortality to protect (kill) her again and again.

. . .

This Yeul is different.

This one he does not love.

This one dies too quick, brief, snuffed before she takes her first breath.

. . .

She is bold and reckless in her sixtieth cycle. She is lucky to have lived past her eighteenth birthday and is wise to count her blessings.

"Thank you, Caius," she declares.

And takes his hand, pressing it against her soft-swollen, staccato heart.

"Thank you."

As this Yeul dissolves, he does not cry. She wouldn't want him to.

. . .

Each Yeul afterwards is never the Yeul he first loved and encountered.

For that, he is grateful.


End file.
